Which of Us the Victor
by squiddly.bunny
Summary: A linguist is tasked with translating a Civil War-era diary. Except, she's also a mutant and a hired gun. Victor Creed is sent to hunt her down and woo her to the Brotherhood. Except, she knows he's coming. Both are pitted against each other - one for Knowledge, one for Power. And in between them is the Truth, words that exposes them both for what they are, who they really were.
1. Prologue

**A/N:** _Back in 2009, I was working on an X-Men oriented fanfic titled_ Blood of Brothers_. Crap happened and I abandoned it; I never really thought that my Victor Creed muse would ever pop up again and clamor for me to continue. Well...funny story. VNV Nation is one of my all-time favorite bands and I finally listened to their new album, _Transnational,_ the other day. And upon this glorious album was a song that, when I heard it, reawakened my Victor muse like none other. I got about a stanza into "Retaliation" and thought, "this would be the perfect Victor Creed song." And, well...you know what they say. The rest is history and I am but a slave to the muses._

_However, a lot of time has elapsed since I took_ Blood of Brothers _down and I'm very different writer now. I decided to tie in this X-Men story with the world that I'm slowly creating in my other Marvel-centric fic, _The Sun Hasn't Died_. In fact, the two main female protagonists are twin sisters (unbeknownst to either one of them). The stories take place concurrently, so even if the Avengers/Catain America isn't your cup of tea, you might want to check it out as this story progresses. As 'Thena tells her story here with Victor, so will Mother Eli and Cap. I've never written two interwoven stories before, much less at the same time, but I think it'll be a lot of fun. Hopefully, Dear Reader, you'll feel the same way!_

_And for those of you who are reading _Challenge, Accepted_...don't worry! I'm on my spring break, so a new chapter will be up by Sunday! Until then, enjoy this new little prologue and check out _The Sun Hasn't Died_ if you're so inclind._

_Cheers!_

* * *

"_One of us the hunter, one of us the prey;_

_One of us the victor, one to walk away._

_One who's left remaining, one of us who stands;_

_One who lies defeated, beneath the other's hands."_

"**Retaliation"**

**VNV Nation**

* * *

Erik Lehnsherr – better known as Magneto – watched thoughtfully as a dark shadow slowly detached itself from the gloom of the forest in front of him. Of all the mutants in his acquaintance, this one was the only one that stirred disgust, pity, _and_ fear within him simultaneously. Disgust, because Creed was the basest of animals – crude, vile, and willfully obtuse, despite his remarkable intelligence. Pity, because Magneto rather suspected the feral man could have been far greater than he was. Fear, because even the mighty Magneto knew that the only thing that kept him from becoming so much meat beneath Creed's claws, was his money and his more sophisticated powers.

Creed inspired humility in even the greatest mutants. This, at least, awarded the feral a grudging sort of respect in Magneto's estimation. Although, Erik was not at all inclined to let Creed in on the fact that he was anything except an efficiently brutal mercenary, hired to execute only the Brotherhood's dirtiest jobs.

Creed. Creed was who Magneto sent in, when he wanted to make a statement.

And in this particular case, Erik wanted to make a statement – a very _visceral_ statement indeed. It also didn't hurt that the virtues of manipulation were not at all lost on Erik; Creed had failed at a similar mission almost 17 years earlier and he would be eager for a second chance to even the score. If there was one thing that motivated Creed more than money, lust, or blood, it was retaliation. Magneto was counting on Creed's pride to succeed where a more…elegant…attempt might otherwise fail.

"You rang?" Creed's rough voice cut through the quiet gloaming, as he stopped just short of the light that spilled out from behind Magneto's tall, thin form; the older mutant simply lifted an eyebrow beneath the confines of his helmet.

"I did," Erik clasped his hands behind his back and inclined his head ever so slightly in Creed's direction. "I've finally found an opportunity that might allow you to settle an old score."

"Wolverine?" the name was a growl, but Magneto couldn't help the crawling feeling that slithered down his back at the undertone of malicious hope in Creed's voice.

"Unfortunately, not _that_ score," Erik wrinkled his nose in brief distaste; no love was lost for Xavier's pet feral, but Creed's unabashed eagerness to eviscerate his own brother was disconcerting, to say the least. "I'm referring to the young Palintol girl."

"The blood bitch?" the deadly growl dropped down even lower, into the deepest regions of Creed's massive chest.

"That would be one way of describing her, yes," Magneto stifled a sigh; there were times when he longed for a little bit of social grace from his followers. "As it turns out, she has a twin sister."

"A sister?" Creed surprised Erik by stepping suddenly forward into the light.

He was a sinister sight and Erik almost wished he had stayed shrouded in the twilight. The mutant was just as tall as Magneto, but nearly twice his width. Broad shoulders filled out the battered leather overcoat that Creed favored; broad chest stretched the black shirt to the point where some of its sable buttons strained dangerously in their respective holes. Creed stood with his feet slightly shoulder width apart, his knees relaxed, his hands hanging nonchalantly at his sides. Erik had never known him to stand any differently – he was always loose, always alert, and always ready to spring into action at the slightest possibility of a target.

"Yes – Athena Valinaskov. It would seem that young Elinor's mutation runs through the family line. Athena is a blood…_witch_…as well," Erik paused delicately before the word 'witch', as if to make his point about verbal propriety quite clear.

Creed just snorted and flashed a canine in the lamplight.

"_Bitch_ fit her better."

Erik refrained from commenting – Creed could nurse a vendetta like no other and it was entirely possible that 17 years wasn't long enough for him to forget his bestial rage at being bested by a 13-year-old. Magneto was in no mood to find out if that was the case or not.

"Regardless, I need Athena. For the same reasons as I needed Elinor. If I can't have one sister, I'll have the other. Plus, Athena seems to be more of our type here in the Brotherhood," it was Magneto's turn for a humorless smile. "She spent time in prison for killing a man."

"Ooh, a challenge," this time, _both_ of Creed's canines slipped free from behind his lips.

The sight was more than a little disconcerting. If Magneto could have trusted any other mutant with the job, he would have preferred dealing with any of _them_ to the one standing in front of him. But, as he suspected, Creed still nursed a festering desire to get even with "the one that got away". And with Athena's felony record – which had taken Erik no small amount of time and money to uncover – and her subsequent rise in social status, Erik was taking no chances for failure. A woman who went from a teenager doing federal time to a respected linguist at Georgetown University had more than just good luck and an unusually elusive sponsor. She was the kind of woman who kept breaking rules to get to the top.

That made her _dangerous_. That made her _desirable._ There was no doubt in Magneto's mind 17 years ago that Elinor Palintol was going to grow up to be a powerful mutant. The discovery of Athena Valinaskov proved that and Erik was _not _going to take "no" for an answer.

"I trust that 17 years is long enough for you to figure out how to get around a mutant who can stop your heart from beating by simply crooking her finger?" Erik jabbed gently at Creed's pride – just enough to get him good and _riled up_.

"I've given it some thought," Creed's grey eyes flashed dangerously; the light from behind Erik reflected eerily in the feral's pupils.

"Good," Magneto finally gathered his cloak around him and decided that it was best to bring the conversation to a close – Creed's attention span never seemed to go beyond ten minutes if he wasn't on the hunt. "I want her alive and unscathed," his eyes flickered meaningfully down at the feral's hands; Creed's claws weren't extended, but they were painstakingly unavoidable nevertheless.

"Well, now, sir," Creed's smile was as vicious as his claws. "What's the fun in that?"

"Athena needs to be…persuaded. By force, if necessary. By _any_ means necessary," Magneto drew himself up to his full height and looked down his long nose at the mercenary, as Creed's eyes lit up with a perverted delight. "But, I _do. Not. Want. Her. Harmed_. Permanently, at any rate," he added as an afterthought, his eyes lingering ever so briefly on Creed's canines. "I want her whole physically _and_ mentally, Creed."

"Then why the hell ask me to go bring her in?" Creed's smile slipped and he crossed his arms defiantly with a scowl.

"Because," Magneto answered simply. "I know that Victor Creed doesn't fail _twice_."

* * *

It was a sunny day on the battlefield. Athena stretched out her legs and leaned back against the gray granite boulder behind her. There was something so inexplicably familiar about the place, as if she'd been there before. She was fairly certain that this was the first time she had ever visited the famous historical town and its surrounding fields, but she felt a kinship for it that seemed to settle down deep into her bones. Sometimes, she had _feelings_ about places – niggling little suspicions that somehow, someway, she'd been "there" before, wherever "there" was. But, this place felt a little different; the memory of it drifted just a little closer to the surface of her memory. She let her head drop back against her shoulders as she lifted her face toward the cloudless, late June sky; this place made her blood _sing_.

She had decided that the absolute best way to kick off her year-long sabbatical was to take a long-planned trip to Gettysburg. The battle had always fascinated her – as had the Civil War, as a whole – and she had spent nearly ten years just little over three hours away in Washington D.C. Yet, she had never once managed to find the time – or the finances – to take herself away from Georgetown and treat herself to the sort of hold-no-expense vacation that she had imagined all these years.

Most people would have spent that sort of money and time on something a little more exotic – London, Paris, Singapore, Sydney, Helsinki, Dublin, Toronto, Buenos Aires. But, Athena liked to imagine that she was girl of humble tastes. It wasn't that her past would prevent her from getting a passport – no, her _other_ employers would easily see to such a minor detail. It wasn't that she didn't want to go and travel the world…someday. It wasn't that she hadn't booked a flight to Edinburgh for Thanksgiving, a trip to Berlin for Christmas, and a jaunt to New York City for New Year's. No, it was just that she wanted to take this – the very first vacation of her entire life – to a place that had whispered hauntingly from the pictures of her old dusty textbooks and from the pages of her many historical novels.

And, well…if there was any time to plan a trip to Gettysburg, it was late June. The reenactments would start in a week and Athena was planning to stay for a week afterwards. Three whole weeks – most of a month – in a quiet little Pennsylvania town that history seemed to have left behind.

It was a glorious way to start a year-long vacation. She sighed happily again and opened her eyes. She squinted briefly against the sun and then titled her head to look out straight ahead, toward the dark tops of the trees that still densely covered Big and Little Round Top.

It was hard to imagine that where she sat – on a large jumbled rise of granite stones that was not that uncommon a sight in the Appalachians – was the site of such vicious bloodshed that it had earned the nickname "Devil's Den." The little creek that gurgled between the bottom slope of Little Round Top and the simple paved road that hugged the curve of Devil's Den had earned the name "Bloody Run", for the gore-soaked water that it had carried during the second day of the battle. One hundred and fifty-one years had passed since the infamy that had made Gettysburg a household American name; now it was a place full of shrieking children who clambered over Devil's Den like it was a jungle gym, and mildly bored parents strolled along Bloody Run, chatting amongst themselves of things that had nothing to do with war, violence, or death.

Athena spread her fingers and pushed her palms lightly into the sun-warmed rock beneath her. She could still sense the blood that had once washed the granite a slick and sticky mess; it was all but gone, but when she closed her eyes and focused inward, when she pulled hard along the edges of her often-subtle seventh sense, she could skim along the sanguine surface of a long-forgotten life.

She'd been to Antietam and it had been the same there; in a place like Gettysburg, where over 45,000 men died in just three days, it was hard to escape the reality of what she was. It was hard not to brush her hand against a tree trunk, or let her fingertips drift across the top of a stone, and _not_ feel history rise up to greet her. In battlefields – and Athena, with her avid interest in history, had been to many – it was hard not to brush up against the ghosts of the past, silent and soul-achingly sad, with just a gentle press of her hand.

Blood tainted places. It changed places. Lincoln hadn't been a mutant, hadn't been a "blood witch", but he had known the truth of places like this – blood could consecrate a place, could make it holy. This was hallowed ground and after all the years, it had a peace about it that Athena wished she could find in the wider world beyond.

And speaking of the wider world beyond…

Her green eyes snapped open in irritation as the phone that she kept clipped to her belt at all times began to buzz like a hornet's nest.

"Ugh," there was no one immediately around her to make her displeasure known to, but that didn't stop Athena from rolling her eyes dramatically to the one lone, fluffy white cloud drifting lazily above her. "Really? _Really_?"

She dutifully unclipped the phone, however grudgingly, and scowled at the number flashing back at her for just a moment, before pressing the screen to answer the call. One did not simply ignore phone calls from her handler.

"Val," she pushed herself up off of her elbows and her eyes roved the rocks around her out of sheer habit, checking to make sure that no one was standing too close to overhear.

As it was, the nearest human body was a laughing pre-teen who was daring her young brother and their friend into a rousing competition of "who can climb up to the top the fastest". The nearest adult was well out of hearing; she relaxed ever so slightly and waited for her handler to acknowledge her voice.

It only took half a heartbeat for a voice to respond on the opposite end of the phone.

"Good afternoon, Val," the voice was male, smooth, and cultured in a way that could only be achieved in places like Oxford. "Enjoying your sabbatical?"

"You never give up on the pleasantries, do you, Ferin?" Athena – codename, "Val", after her last name – sighed dramatically.

"I'm afraid not," Ferin chuckled smoothly. "Pleasantries _are_ what make us civil."

Athena wanted to add "so does not killing people", but she knew better. Ferin hadn't bailed her out of a women's prison in god-forsaken Florida when she was a teenager, but his employers – _their_ employers – _had_.

When she was young, fresh out of a life sentence, she hadn't cared who had granted her a new lease on freedom, or at what cost. Every time she'd taken a life since, she wondered if she should have stayed in Florida, where she was doing time for the one crime of which she was innocent.

But, if it weren't for her employers – _their_ employers – Athena would not be currently sunning herself on the rocks of Devil's Den, with tenure at a prestigious Ivy League college at the prime age of 30. So, as always, she bit her tongue and played the role her freedom demanded.

"You never call just to trade pleasantries. What's up, Ferin?"

"Well, you'll be pleased to know that this time, you don't need to neutralize any threats to the organization," Ferin said the word "org-an-eye-zation", with the prim accent that Athena had come to hear in her dreams right before they turned into nightmares.

"Be still my swooning heart," Athena hid her relief behind sarcasm; somehow, though, she suspected that Ferin wasn't so easily fooled.

He was a damn empath, after all.

"The Masters have recently come into possession of a most curious diary," Ferin continued smoothly, as if Athena had never interrupted him. "They wish for you to translate it."

"Translate? A diary?" Athena blinked owlishly in the noonday sun as playing children provided a bizarre soundtrack to her personal drama.

"Yes. I'm sure you'll agree with the Masters that it is most fascinating," Ferin actually sounded…excited?

Athena frowned. In all the years, she had never heard Ferin express any sort of emotion outside of "professional" and "deadpan".

"It's ancient Irish Gaelige – the dialect it's written in has already been dated to the 9th or 10th century…"

"Wait a minute," Athena's frown deepened until her brows had almost knitted together into one monolithic entity above her eyes. "Is it a religious relic? The average 10th century Irishman didn't know how to _write_. And we're talking as-old-as-the-Book-of-Kells here. I'm not even sure _monks_ kept _diaries_."

"They didn't, unless you count the redactions that they wrote in the margins of their holy books," Ferin chuckled – again, with the uncharacteristic emotion.

Athena was starting to get a bit unnerved; her skin goose-pimpled, as if the cloud above her had blocked the sun, but she was still bathed in warm June light.

"But, it is, in fact, a diary. There are dates and a photograph inside of it that date the diary between 1861 and 1865. Between the battles of Bull Run and Appomattox, as a matter of fact – the writer was a soldier of the era –"

"Get _out_," Athena practically breathed into the phone pressed urgently to her ear.

" – And we believe the writer was a _woman_."

All that met Ferin was ringing silence; Athena truly had no words. But, her usual grudging obedience to follow the Masters' orders was suddenly replaced by inexpressible _excitement_. Her fingers practically _itched_ with the anticipation of holding such a precious, impossible treasure between them.

She knew the ramifications of what Ferin was telling her – he didn't need to spell it out. There were rumors of mutants who near had immortality, healing agents that kept them alive for centuries until such events occurred that separated their heads from their bodies. Was the writer of this diary such a mutant? Surely, a mutant she had to be, if she wrote her battlefield diary in the language of her ancestors – a language that she wouldn't have heard in English-ruled 19th century Ireland and a language she certainly wouldn't have known how to write.

Her Masters wanted to know about these mutants; they wanted to hunt them down; they wanted to recruit them. Knowledge and power – those were the keys to the "organization" and its kingdom-to-be.

For once, she was just glad that she wasn't being asked to _kill_ for that knowledge and power. A translation would go nicely with her sabbatical. Quite nicely indeed.

"Val?" Ferin prompted; apparently, she had fallen silent during her personal rumination.

"Uh…do I need to report anywhere for this translation? To pick up the diary?" she moved as she spoke, her excitement too great to stay sunning on her bit of granite.

"No, the Masters have already taken the liberty to send you the diary. You'll find it in your hotel room, when you arrive back."

Athena stifled another sigh – they always knew where she was, what she was doing. Once, it made her paranoid, but when she realized that she was going to live her whole life with Big Brother looking over her shoulder, she decided to shrug that growing sense of paranoia off before it consumed her. It was the price she paid for having a life outside of barbed wire fences.

"Is there a time frame that the Masters want this diary translated in?" Athena brushed the back of her pants off with one hand, as she began to look around her for the surest foothold off of the rock and onto the one next to it.

"They would like to have it translated before you leave Gettysburg, or at least enough of it to provide them with substantial information about the writer's identity. Oh, and Val," Ferin paused ever so slightly and if Athena hadn't been trying to negotiate her way down toward the ground, she would have frozen in her spot.

Ferin didn't just _pause_. He was about to tell her something she _really _wasn't going to like.

"The Masters have also arranged for another mutant to make your acquaintance. Based on the photograph found within the diary, they believe he may be key to providing information about the writer that she does not furnish herself."

There was a pregnant pause. Athena's gut twisted and her mouth ran dry.

"Who?"

"His name is Victor Creed."

Athena knew the name – anyone in her business did. So, she did the only reasonable thing she could under the circumstances.

She swore. Loudly.

* * *

"_When the dust has settled, only one of us will see_

_Which of us was worthy, which of us was weak._

_And when this time is over,_

_Only one of us will say:_

_Which of us the victor and which of us the prey."_

"**Retaliation"**

**VNV Nation**


	2. The Haunting

_**A/N**: I'll be alternating the story from Victor's and Athena's points of view. First up: Victor. Mostly, because I lost the first half of Athena's chapter in all of my infinite wisdom - this was actually supposed to be chapter two, but I think it might actually work better as chapter one._

_Thanks to **CeilidhStewart** for the review! And many thanks to those who have favorited the first chapter - I hope the unfolding story doesn't disappoint!_

_Also, just to remind, this story is being concurrently written with its companion fanfic, **The Sun Hasn't Died** (Avengers; Captain America/OC). It features Athena's (as of yet unknown) twin sister, Elinor Palintol. Elements of both stories will be progessively woven into each other, so that they'll serve as joint stories, to be read together. Even if Captain America/the Avengers aren't your cup of tea, you might want to check it out. Both stories can be read independently of each other, but I'll be weaving certain plot elements in sooner in one versus the other, and reading them together might provide a deeper understanding of both characters and their unique challenges/relationships. Maybe...we'll see if it works out according to my grand plan, LOL._

_Please read and please review! I love reviews, so keep the luv coming! Also, I don't know of any other fanfic writer who's tried to portray Victor in the first preson; I decided on first person in part to mirror the writing style of **The Sun Hasn't Died**, but also to provide something of a challenge for myself. PLEASE let me know if Victor ever sounds OCC - I'm having fun trying to tap into his mind and his "voice", but outside critiques are always welcome._

* * *

"_Don't tell me it's the end of everything,_

_It always seem the darkest before the light._

_So fragile and breaking apart,_

_Finding solace in the knowledge of what's right,_

_All that's holy, sacred and divine,_

_Guarding over all within its sight."_

"**Everything"**

**VNV Nation**

* * *

I couldn't fucking believe Magneto's gall. What did he think I was – a fucking housecat? I was the mutant you called when you wanted your enemy's guts ripped out and fed to them while they were dying. I did _not_ persuade, cajole, or manipulate. I certainly didn't _seduce_. It wasn't my fucking MO – never had been, never would.

But, the bastard had it right, when he said I didn't fail twice. I also wasn't stupid – I knew _exactly_ why Magneto had hired me to handle a job so far outside of my norm. The old son of a bitch knew that I wanted a second go 'round with the Palintol bitch. She had, however, disappeared into that freak school in New York and from there into the fucking aether. I had tried on several occasions to hunt her down, when I was bored and between jobs, but any of the few leads I found all led straight to dead ends. She was out there and I _knew _she could be found. But she was protected – by whom, I hadn't been able to figure out. But whoever they were, they made the Brotherhood look like fucking chump change.

I still wanted to hunt her down and make her pay for trying to tear the blood right out of my veins, but I'd settle for her sister, for now. Or, I would have, if Magneto hadn't fucking _leashed_ me. As satisfying as it was to track down Blood Bitch 2.0, the end result was maddening.

Fucking '_whole_', my _ass_. If the second one tried to use her powers on me, that was it. I'd wallowed in excruciating pain for _days_ after the first bitch had at me; if the second one tried anything cute, I was going to _eat_ her. Raw, bloody, and still very much alive.

And if she didn't try anything cute…well…I'd probably still eat her, willing or not. Magneto had provided me with a file and if she hadn't deviated much from the assorted photos included in said file, she was quite the little morsel. Green eyes, short strawberry blond hair, curvaceous, and strong (if her physical records were anything to go by). Just the type of woman I liked – the kind that could take what I had to offer. Up to a point, anyway; even the study ones broke after a while. I played hard with my toys.

Magneto had made it quite clear that I wasn't allowed to break her. But, I knew he wasn't stupid, either. He'd sent a feral cat to bait and catch; he'd be a fucking idiot to think I _wasn't_ going to play with her for a little bit. And who knew? If she was as deviant as Magneto seemed to think she was, maybe that'd work to his advantage. It was fucking _rare_, but every so often, I found a toy who _liked_ what I did to her. I always had to kill _those_ ones, since they were the ones who wanted to form fucking _attachments_. But, as long as I made it clear that any attachment she made was transferrable to the Brotherhood and the Brotherhood only…and she fucking _listened_ to me…then it was a perfect plan. I'd get my rocks off, Magneto'd get his blood bitch _intact_, and between the two of us, it'd be a win-win.

The only problem was, there was a lot of _ifs_ in that plan. _If_ she liked what I did. _If_ I even decided I wanted to go down that route. _If_ she didn't try to fucking attach herself to me. _If_ Magneto didn't think that marks of claiming broke the terms of his 'agreement.'

I didn't make plans on _if_. But,_ if_ I couldn't eat her heart out while she died watching, it was an acceptable course of action.

* * *

Not that I was sparkles and unicorn farts on a good day, but his whole assignment pissed me the fuck off. Everything about it, every last minute fucking detail. Even deciding on a point of attack that made the whole miserable situation fucking tolerable didn't really help much, when I stood on the edge of a battlefield that I had avoided like the plague for a century and a half.

I fucking _hated_ Gettysburg. Loathed it. So, of course, the blood bitch was taking a fucking _vacation_ there. It was just my luck.

I stopped my truck on the edge of the battlefield, right by the damn Eternal Light Peace Memorial that had been built back in the 1930s or some shit like that. It was night and a new moon, so the surrounding fields and copses were pitch black. I secretly wished the fucking sun would eclipse the next morning – I didn't want to see the echoes of my memories in color. I flexed my fingers on the steering wheel and breathed in slowly, deeply. A fucking century and a half, and I could still smell blood.

I could still smell _her_ blood.

I refused to think her name, but the memory of her face still swam unbidden to the forefront of my mind. She'd faded a little bit with time, but I still remembered how perfectly green her eyes had been – I still remembered her damn fucking smile. I growled. My heart had died along with her 149 years go, but it still tried to stutter to life at the thought of her. It fucking hurt – far more and far more deeply than when the Palintol bitch had tried to rearrange my insides.

I closed my eyes and growled again. I focused on her lies – with her fucking dying breath, the bitch had promised me that she'd be back. She'd covered my frantic hands, the gentlest they'd ever been, in her damn blood, and lied through her fucking teeth. She'd given me fucking false hope – hope that I'd finally give up on somewhere between the trenches of the Western Front and the beaches of Normandy. I'd nursed a deep and simmering _rage_ since then – a resentment that just built up another layer with each passing year, an anger that slowly took up what little room for love I'd ever possessed.

I focused on that anger, that rage, that resentment. I _shook_ with it, I let its power infuse me, I clung to it like a damn drowning man. It eased the hurt, it burned any pussy-ass moisture from the corner of my eyes, it made my claws lengthen until they curled around the steering wheel and cut into my own palm.

Once I made sure that my rage was suitably set in place, to buffer me from the memories that I knew would flood to haunt me as soon as the sun spilled into the Shenandoah valley, I took the truck out of park and punched the gas. I refused to think of what it had felt like to hold her in my arms, her legs straddling my lap, her hands against my naked chest, her lips against my ear.

I gathered my anger in defense of what I knew I would hear in the morning, when her ghost rushed out to greet me.

_I love you, Victor_.

* * *

Not that the fucking general populous would know, but I did them all a favor and kept to the fields and the woods. I wanted to _kill_ something, but decided to settle for a deer at some point later. While I embraced my feral nature, I still had a high and rational IQ, and a decent amount of fucking common sense. A little place like Gettysburg would attract _twice_ the attention that a place like New York City would, if some poor bastard was found in scattered, itty bitty pieces. I had a mission – one that I hoped wouldn't take fucking _forever_ – and attracting attention with so much as a missing _whore_ would ruin any hope I'd have of being successful. I stood out on the busiest streets of the busiest cities; the locals of Gettysburg were going to remember me for a _long_ time, even if all I did was stop for gas and a hamburger. I didn't need to heap notoriety on my head in a place like this; if chasing after wildlife for a few nights kept the Feds in their little cubicles in Washington, then it was well worth the sacrifice.

I promised myself a hunting excursion in Maine when this was all over. My lodge up there could use another moose head on the wall and a few more bear rugs. The thought consoled me as I hunched uncomfortably on a tree limb and watched her fucking suntan on the rocks below.

I was pleased to discover, however, that her file's photos did indeed do her justice. She _was_ a tasty little morsel and I wished she'd showed up with fewer clothes on. As it was, she had on a low-cut tank top and short shorts, and didn't seem at all concerned that she was draped all over the grey granite like some kind of posing tart. I enjoyed the view.

She was only five foot four or so, perhaps even shorter. Easily dominated, then; if she was anything like most women her height, all I'd have to do was intimidate her with my size. She looked to be a little heavier in person than she was in her photos, but I really didn't mind that. Preferred it, actually, as long as she was structurally strong and healthy; those were usually the ones that could take a beating the best.

And, yes, with a body like that, I was definitely inclined to pursue my plan of _persuasion_. I'd give it a day to watch her, maybe another day to rile her up, but the week would end with her face down and ass up. I smirked in anticipation.

I watched as she sat up and answered her phone; my attention was briefly diverted by a small child that started to play on the rocks in Bloody Run, which was a few yards beyond where I lurked, but a parent quickly pulled it to safety. Incidentally, the little rug rat didn't have anything to fear from _me_; I only went after things that put up a fight.

At least, that's how I phrased it. If it wasn't old enough to exercise potential mutant powers, I left it alone. I never claimed to lack morals – they just didn't match up to the rest of society.

I turned my head slightly, to better catch her side of the conversation. It was fairly one-sided – it sounded like she was being given some sort of assignment. I caught her ask about being somewhere to pick something up and I glanced over at her, an eyebrow raised. She was supposed to be on a sabbatical, so it couldn't be Georgetown calling, I wouldn't think. Was she meeting someone later? Did she work for someone? What _was _she talking about? Curiosity killed the fucking cat.

Mostly, I just wanted to know I what she was talking about would throw a wrench into what scarce of a plan I had laid so far. I _really_ wasn't in the mood for complications; I wanted to get out of this thrice-damned place as fast I possibly could.

My attention was briefly diverted, yet again, by the child that insisted on playing at the edge of Bloody Run. I was intimately familiar with how the tiny trickle of a stream had gotten its name, just as I was intimately familiar with how the giant jumble of rocks across from me had earned the title "Devil's Den". I remembered being at the top of this very hill, so named "Little Round Top." I had fought all along the length of this damn pile of wooded dirt, with the rest of the 20th Maine; I was well aware of how history remembered us. We were big damn heroes and Colonel Chamberlain was the biggest damn hero of all. Once, I'd even been proud to call myself one of "Chamberlain's men", back when I still thought I could die and gave a damn about that sort of mortal bullshit.

I purposefully refused to think of what the Colonel might say of me now.

I also pointedly refused to think of the lithe and broken body that I had rescued from contributing her part to Bloody Run. I growled, low and deep in my chest; thankfully, the subject of my stake-out chose that moment to swear, and loudly. The echo of her frustration prevented the child's parents from realizing that their brood was in the shadow of a predator.

It was amusing, however, to see the looks of indignation that were sent the blood bitch's oblivious way. I wondered what she'd been told that had solicited such a response; she was _not _happy.

She left after concluding her conversation, shortly after she had cursed like a damn sailor. I wasn't able to catch any details from her end of the conversation and I was irritable with the knowledge that I wasn't going to be able to engage her with any real sense of one-upmanship. I made it my business to know things about my prey that they would otherwise keep hidden; I didn't like not having anything on her besides what was already in her damn file.

I followed her to an ice cream store and watched her walk around the little tourist traps that had sprung up along Steinwehr Avenue, which had been the main thoroughfare of Gettysburg when I'd last been there. She seemed distraught and, to my great annoyance, also seemed to be high alert. She kept glancing around all over the damn place, as if she suspected someone of following her. What the _hell _had that phone call been about?

I just wanted to fuck her (once or twice, if so inclined), convince her to join the Brotherhood, drop her off at Magneto's feet (it'd be more fun if that were literal), and head for the wilderness. The longer I was in Gettysburg, the more I noticed how much things had changed. The more I saw how things had changed, the more I thought of how they'd been. The more I thought about _that_…

_I love you, Victor_.

I needed to eat, kill, or fuck something. I would prefer at least two out of those three, but I wasn't picky about which ones. And I needed to any combination of those things _soon_, before I lost my fucking mind.

* * *

I thought I _would_ lose my fucking mind, when I saw where she was staying. It wasn't so much what it was now – a little bed and breakfast – as what it _had_ been. It _had_ been a farmer's house and one that was forever seared into my memory. Most of the original structure was still intact and, for the most part, still matched the memory of it that I had locked away in the back corners of my mind.

When I watched her park her fucking pretentious little Prius and walk in there with a grocery bag of assorted crap she'd picked up at a neighboring gas station, I completely blanked out for several and dangerous moments. This bed and breakfast was where we'd taken _her_, to recuperate from her near-fatal wounds. It was where we'd made that fucking dumbass pact of hers, the one she said would make us "blood of her blood." It was where she'd bound us all together; it was where she'd first spoken her lies. It was also where, once she was able, I took her, claimed her, made her _mine_.

Like a fool, I thought then that I'd never lose her.

I sat in my truck cab and quietly seethed. If I could have torched the damn building to the ground, I would have. Unfortunately, that would _also _have brought attention to my presence and my intentions. A place like Gettysburg didn't take the arson of historical buildings lightly.

Of course, I could just torch the whole damn place to the ground. I may or may not have done that a time or two in the jungles of Vietnam. Now _that _was a satisfying feeling, to watch a whole god-forsaken place go up in flames. If _only_…

I smiled wickedly at the thought and gave my imagination free reign for just a moment or two. If Gettysburg was nothing but a burnt hole on the map, I'd have lived a full and meaningful life.

Unfortunately, fantasy could only take me so far and I tended not to indulge in it. No point in wasting time thinking about things that I couldn't actually _do_. Better to apply my mind to the here and now, and to what raping, pillaging, and burning I _was_ able to unleash.

I drummed my claws on the top of the steering wheel and considered what to do next. I could go find a place of my own to settle down for the rest of the night – the bed of my truck had served as suitable crash space on more than occasion and a Pennsylvania summer night was hardly uncomfortable. I could get a hotel room, but that'd be a waste of money, since I fully intended to make myself at home in her bed, until I got my way.

Should I sleep in the truck for the night, or go introduce myself now? Decisions, decisions. I drummed my fingers and peered sourly at the upstairs light that had flickered on shortly after she'd disappeared into the B&B's front door.

I finally decided to make my dramatic entrance in the morning. While I would never admit such a thing out loud, being back in such a familiar and haunting place had bothered the fuck out of me. I was unsettled and irritable; I knew myself well and if she gave me any trouble in this sort of mood, I'd fucking rip her throat out and carry her _carcass_ to Magneto. That wouldn't earn me any favors, for sure; not that I really fucking cared what my employer thought, but I really didn't want to lose the money. Magneto paid generously for my troubles.

* * *

About an hour later, I had found a suitably deserted spot on the very edge of town and had settled down in the bed of my truck. I had a thick foam exercise mat and a military-issue sleeping bag; the night was warm and I dressed down to be more comfortable. My shirt and coat rolled up nicely into a makeshift pillow and I lay back to consider the dark sky above for a while.

I did something I hadn't done in years – something I wouldn't have done, if I hadn't been forced to stalk around long-repressed memories all day. I fished out an old and battered photograph from the inner pocket fold of my wallet and considered it for a few moments in the darkness, where no one could witness my moment of damn weakness.

For decades, I'd shoved that photograph and its memories to the farthest corners of my mind and my duffle bag. But sometimes, very rarely, on dark and moonless nights like this, I'd remember the road to redemption.

How far I'd strayed from grace since then. It'd taken an entire century, but here I was. More beast, than the man I'd once pretended to be. I was glad that the photograph was a faded black-and-white; it was easier to think, then, that it had all been a distant dream. When the faces that stared back at me were just shades of grey, it was easier to think of them as ghosts from another life.

Except when I closed my eyes. _Then_ I saw it all, in damn Technicolor. I saw her mousy-brown hair that suited her best when it was ruffled and messed from a night spent between my thighs. I saw her mischievous green eyes, bright with passion. I saw her small lips, flushed with just the slightest hint of blood from where my canines inevitably cut her while kissing her.

Thankfully, I'd spent about a decade free from her haunting. Until now, thanks to Magneto and his fucking bullshit assignment – both of which could go straight to hell, as far as I was concerned. Now, though, I was practically forced to remember how much I missed her innocence and fucking wide-eyed wonder. I was forced to remember how good she'd once made me feel, when we would smile and pretend – for just a moment in time – that I was a good man.

_Her_ man.

For a 149 years, I'd been able to wash her memory away in blood. I'd been able to let the rage, the bitterness, the _animal_ take over ad fade my conscious, until it was as grey and forgotten as the old photograph I now clasped between my claws. I stared at those claws, now, and felt the sudden compulsion to wash them, like I had that day so long ago, when I' d scrubbed my hands bloody in an attempt to rinse off hers. I had so foolishly hoped that the scent of my own blood would erase the memory of hers.

It hadn't worked. I would carry the memory of her scent with me for fucking eternity.

I growled, more in pain than in anger. It was hard to feel anger when it was just me, the night sky, and the photograph. The balmy night wind brushed against my nipples and I stirred uncomfortably on top of my sleeping bag, torn by thoughts of how it felt to have her fingers play across my chest. I knew I should have just shredded the damn photograph _years_ ago, but for some reason, I liked to fucking torture myself. Call me a damn sentimentalist, but I had never been able to bring myself to just light the fucking thing on fire like I knew I should. I let it hang around, even dug it up on nights like this, for what purpose, I couldn't really fathom.

Guess I was just a fucking emotional sadomasochist, or some shit like that.

I moved a thumb across her face and silently wished that it was skin I felt, instead of fragile, yellowed, 19th century photograph paper.

She was standing between us in the photo, her back straight and her rifle clasped in her hands. I stood to the right of her, Jimmy to the left. None of us were smiling – I openly glared at the photographer and I remembered how I'd wanted to tear that clunky camera from that damn nosy journalist and smash it underneath my boots.

I'd never liked cameras and if anything, my disdain for them had grown throughout the years.

Jimmy looked like he was in pain; if I remembered correctly, he'd had a crick in his neck. We'd been standing there a damn half hour, before the cameraman got the fucking picture right. She had her lips pursed around the word "plum", which photographers of that time had insisted on subjects uttering before pressing the shutter. I'd never gotten the point of that. I'd told her later that it just made her look constipated.

But, plum or no plum, time hadn't faded the tell-tale crinkle around her eyes; she'd laughed at everything, from cameramen to death.

She'd been our biggest secret, then. We'd known within a few weeks of meeting her, that she was a woman – in the beginning, she wasn't as slight and underfed as she was at other times, so she'd had her period just enough times for us to smell it and put the pieces all together. At first, Jimmy wanted to turn her in – "it's the right thing to do, Victor." But, well…even then, I'd never been known to do what was right and I hadn't wanted to lose her laughter. She made the carnage bearable.

So, we made ourselves her protectors and fought with her. Side-by-side, from the second Bull Run to the final Appomattox. We called her out on her secret after Chancellorsville; I kissed her for the first time then, too. We almost lost her here, at Gettysburg; I took her more-than-willing virginity a few weeks later. And she'd sacrificed herself for us at Appomattox, where I'd finally discovered the damnation of my immortality.

Slowly, I crumpled those memories in my hand. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath; I was doomed to an existence that never ended, to memories that never ended, until that lucky day that someone managed the impossible.

I had begged Jimmy to do it, at Three Mile Island. I still cursed him for refusing. I still hoped, too, that it _would be_ him, eventually, who ended my misery. Seemed only right. Jimmy was all I had left – and even then, he wasn't enough to save my soul.

And until Jimmy cut off my head, I'd be haunted by a photograph I couldn't seem to ever give up and memories I couldn't seem to ever suppress. I was going to spend an eternity, trying to outrun the ghosts of my past and being tormented by the memory of what I could never hold again. A memory that seemed to feed on every drop of blood I shed.

The more I killed, the more I remembered her. If I was honest with myself, I didn't need to be in fucking Gettysburg to feel haunted by her. She was always near, no matter what. Every moment of every day, throughout each passing year. Being here, in the place where I'd finally made her mine, just made it harder to lose myself to my bloodlusts and shove her ghost aside.

Maybe, one day, I'd finally be able to forget her. Maybe, by then, the animal I so eagerly embraced would have finally consumed what was left of my tenuous humanity and I'd remember nothing else except for lust and blood.

Maybe…

But until that fucking lucky day, I'd remember her name. And realize each time I did that I wasn't so sure that I _wanted_ to forget her.

She was the reason why I kept the animal – the full and_ total_ animal – at bay, for just one more day, for just for one more memory.

As long as I remembered her, I'd have nights like this, when I held her ghost close and wished, like some fucking fool moron, for what could have been.


	3. The Diary

**A/N:** Many thanks to MamaVolk and Guest, who reviewed **The Haunting**! You guys rock! Please keep the luv coming - read = review! It's what keeps this attention-starved writer writing. ;)

* * *

_"Embracing with all of your heart;_  
_Give me your body and your soul._  
_In greatness take all in your stride;_  
_Lend your courage to the task, to the masses hope and pride._  
_Don't tell me it's the end of everything;_  
_It always seems the darkest before the light."_

"**Everything"**

**VNV Nation**

* * *

I thought about flopping back down on my sunning rock in defeat. Seriously? In the span of five minutes, I'd been told some of the most exciting news of my career _and_ some of the most terrifying.

Mr. Creed's reputation preceded him. By a _lot_. I didn't know much about his history, but I knew enough. At the start of his brutal, blood-lusting career, he had worked for a government contractor named Stryker. After Three Mile Island went up in flames and Stryker went missing, Creed disappeared as well, only to resurface on the federal radar as what could best be described as a contract killer for private entities. About 17 years ago, he'd joined what was then just a shadowy whisper of a militant mutant group, the Brotherhood. He'd been working on their growing payroll ever since, although sources did indicate that Creed was on hire to whoever paid best, be it the Brotherhood or someone else. His connection to Magneto and the Brotherhood was tenuous at best; sometimes he worked for them, sometimes he didn't. It all depended on the pay.

But it never, ever, depended on the target. Creed was fearless in his nondiscrimination. He'd even gone after one of our operatives once, during my time in the Organization. What was found of Dirth could have fit into a shoebox.

No one ever went after one of our operatives and lived to tell the tale. One most especially did not _kill_ one of the Master's best trainers and spies, and live to kill another day. The rumor around was that the Masters had decided it was best to let Creed go his way. He was suspected to be one of those rare mutants who was able to regenerate and heal; he was an Object of Interest, as a result.

That was the only thing that spared him.

Of course, even quieter rumors had it that the Kaos had put a hit on one of the Masters and had sent Creed after her. Creed had found his target and delivered his "message"; whatever that delivery entailed, it had been enough to shake the Masters to their very core and to grant him a certain immunity from our customary justice.

Needless to say, that story didn't get around much in the Organization. But, those of us who were spies and assassins…we had heard the story. And we knew it well. _Stay away from Creed_, was the point it got across. _Stay away if you value your life_.

It wasn't hard to do, really. Creed kept to his circles and we kept to ours. And since our circles usually only involved the very rich and the very powerful, the paths of Creed's employers did not usually cross with ours. There was an unspoken…_agreement_…

And now, my Masters were purposefully sending him _to me_.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to pitch a fit lie a five year old, or give into the ice-cold fear dumping into my veins. Indecision drove me closer to my car – a perky little Toyota Prius (may it never be said that I was not environmentally friendly _and_ practical) – and from there, to the nearest ice cream store. Creed might strangle me later with my own intestines, but at least my last few hours would involve a few of my favorite things.

I wasn't sure where I got the rather melodramatic and overblown impression that Creed was already hours away from my present location. Most likely, I had a few days to go before I had to worry about looking over my shoulder at every lurking shadow. But, rational thought couldn't shake the feeling that the Masters had stalled in telling me their plans. IT all depended on when they'd set their trap; had they waited until today and let Ferin be their mouthpiece? Had they set Creed in motion the moment that they found the diary and its mysterious photograph? If the later, then it was reasonable to expect company at any moment.

Ferin hadn't gone into any detail after dropping the proverbial bombshell on my head. There really wasn't much more that he _could_ say, even as my handler. "_Creed is coming to get you and it's the Masters' fault_." What could possibly be said to make that any better?

Bastards. What made them think that _I_ could take on Victor Creed? He'd reduced Dirth – one of our finest operatives – to so much scrap flesh and he may or may not have threatened the life of one of our very own (and usually untouchable) Masters. If he was the kind of mutant to put fear into the Masters…what _possible_ ghost of a chance did I stand against him? True, my mutation could stop the feral's heart with a mere focused _thought_, but that wouldn't work if he got the advantage of surprise. Blood magic was intuitive, but it wasn't _automatic_. I still had to focus on it; like any weapon, I still had to think, to aim, to prepare. If Creed came up behind me in the dark with claws extended toward my neck, I was toast.

Unless, of course, he wasn't being sent to _kill_ me. It was hard to imagine, but if the Masters were _truly_ in control of the situation as they claimed through Ferin Their Mouthpiece, then it was entirely conceivable that Creed was being sent my way with other motives. Of course, regardless of what those non-murderous motives might be, I was pretty sure that, since Creed was involved, any interaction with him would involve assault, battery, and rape.

Charming. Just, _freakin' charming_.

* * *

I made it back to my hotel room without incident and when I shut the door behind me, I curled my fingers around the cool metal doorknob and put a blood-ward on it. It was a simple enough construct – I nicked the meaty part of my palm with a Swiss Army knife I always kept in my pocket and smeared a few drops over the handle. I had "marked my territory" as it were, and I would know, then, if someone opened the door. The only exceptions to a ward were "blood of my blood", but since I didn't have any progeny, parents, lovers, or siblings, I didn't ever have to worry about my defenses being tripped by the wrong person. I usually put blood wards on any door that separated me from the outside world, but I hadn't done it to this door yet, because I hadn't expected to be contracted or contacted while on my sabbatical.

Oh, well. I'd know better the next time around. Apparently, vacations were just an opportunity for the Masters to give me _more_ work. And, to send murderous mutant ferals after me, in a hunt for the Truth.

I stifled my growing frustration and thought of my freedom. Whenever I got angry with my benefactors – and there had been many causes for anger in the past 11 years – I reminded myself of hot Florida summers spent with backstabbing human women, locked up in concrete brick and barbed-wire covered buildings. That image usually got me over the worst of my moral indignation.

After setting my ward and reigning in my temper, I flicked on the lights and took stock of my situation. Nothing had been moved in my room; there was nothing to indicate that I had had any unwanted visitors. Nothing that is, except a brown paper wrapped package lying nicely in the middle of my bed. It was tied with course hemp string, and about the right size and shape for a diary, and was remarkably unassuming. I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

There was blood on it; it was old, faded, and covered for sure by other odors I couldn't smell, but there was blood. It smelled like the once blood-soaked earth of Gettysburg – faint and all-but-forgotten, yet clinging stubbornly to the edges of its memories. It also seemed...familiar.

I walked over to it as if entranced and picked it up reverently after several long moments of just staring down at it. Once the paper and the twine had been pulled off of it and discarded on the bed, I saw that it _was _nothing more than a simple little diary. The edges of its papers were warped and rippled, as if they had once been wet and then had dried. They were discolored, a faded reddish-brown that had certainly mellowed its town through the century and a half since it had last been opened. The cover of the diary was frail and mottled with age spots; it had once been a handsome book indeed, wrapped in black cow leather and tied shut with a leather string that now threatened to fall apart in my hands.

It was beautiful, as all old things are. I let my fingertips drift across the closed cover and I let my eyes close for just a moment as I imagined what that blood could have told, had it been a hundred years younger.

This was, quite possibly, the rarest of rare finds, on a multitude of levels. It was a diary written by a woman during the Civil War – not just any woman, but one who dressed and acted as a man, in order to fight for her country. Was she a "Yankee" or a "Rebel"? Ferin hadn't said. Had she been here, in Gettysburg, so many years before? When had she spilled her blood upon this diary? What had happened to her?

There were precious few intact records of female soldiers in _any_ American conflict prior to the world wars. To have the diary of a female soldier from the Civil War – a whole, intact _diary_ – was a rare and extraordinary find. Now, add to that fact that she was, more than likely, a _mutant_, and the diary was probably one of the most priceless artifacts I would ever hold. The fact that it was written in Gaelige was just icing on the cake.

I sat down on the edge of my bed and gently opened the front cover. I was not at all prepared for what greeted me, as I held that beautiful little tome gently between my palms.

I had seen a picture of Victor Creed – a mug shot taken by law enforcement before he eviscerated half of a small police station in rural Alabama. He had a very distinct and very unforgettable face – large, round cheekbones dominated most of his facial structure and they were covered by suitably antiquated muttonchops. He had small mouth and chin, but the strength – and width – of his jaw kept them from seeming "weak". His nose was strong as well, his forehead broad, and his eyes home to an eerily malevolent intelligence. His was the kind of face that stayed with you long after you turned off the lights.

That same face _smiled_ up at me, from the center of a faded photograph that had been written, it would seem, _glued_ to the back of the front cover at some indeterminate point in time. I blinked and even brought the diary up closer to my face, as if to peer at the photo in a brighter light. But there was no mistaking those distinctive cheeks, or prominent brow, or intelligent eyes. There was also no mistaking the canines that grounded the reality of his nature into that smile, or the sharpened claws that tipped the hand that rested on the shoulder of the slender young woman standing at his side.

There was also no way to ignore the faded, stilted handwriting scribbled at the bottom of the photo, on the cover's old papered back.

_Victor & Josephine Creed. August 5th, 1863._

I gaped, my jaw completely unhinged by my amazement.

So, _this_ is what Ferin had meant when he said that the Masters were sending Creed my way, based on an old photograph found inside of the diary. No doubt, if Creed's picture was tucked into the pages of a diary like a treasured memory, then the writer of the diary was more than likely the same young woman standing next to him. As hard as it was _not _to gawk at a smiling Victor Creed I turned my attention to his erstwhile companion.

The picture was faded, in the way that old photographs from that era are. But, the book – and the photograph by extension – was remarkably well-preserved, so I could make out the same details as one could have back in 1863. Her hair was hidden by a bonnet and was most likely short (if she was, indeed, the author of the diary); as round and strong as Creed's facial features were, hers were long and elegant. She was much shorter than he – only coming up to his shoulder – but based on speculation that Creed was well over six feet tall, then she had to be much taller than most women of her time, probably five-six or so. She was very slender – all the better to hide her gender – but what curves she had around the waist and chest were gently accentuated by the dress she wore. It looked like it had been made primarily of lace and silk – rare things for that time and place, for sure – and based on the shade of sepia that it was in the photograph, it had probably been white.

She was wearing a wedding dress.

Victor Creed, the feral mutant of every sentient being's nightmares, was married. Or, at least, _had_ been married. Would the diary tell me what had happened to her? Was she still alive? If anything, this photo proved what the Masters already suspected – that Creed was a mutant of no small regenerative powers. Surely his wife did as well; I eyed his toothy smile and shook my head in something like sadness. If he had regenerative powers and she didn't...then Creed had lived a very lonely existence indeed. The joy revealed in that simple photo was profound; if he had lost that...

I shook my head, hardly daring to believe that I was feeling _sympathy_ for Victor Creed. That bastard deserved no man's pity. Still...I couldn't tear my eyes away from their matched smiles.

It was extraordinarily rare to see a photograph of smiling people from the Civil War era. In all actuality, I wasn't sure that I had ever seen a smiling subject from a photograph prior to the 20th century. For one, there wasn't much to smile about when taking a photo in those days; photographs took a long time to set up, and most people had to sit or stand still for such long periods of time that stiffness was a common complaint. For another, it just wasn't the custom of the time to smile for the camera; people were often instructed to stay "plum" right before the photographer clicked the shutter, so that their lips were pursed in purposeful severity. Stoicism – or, at least, the _appearance _of stoicism – was quite in vogue then. So, to have a photograph of _two_ smiling newlyweds was novel indeed.

It meant that even social customs of the day couldn't contain the happiness they'd had, at that frozen moment in time. And if a man – mutant, feral, or otherwise – had lost that sort of irrepressible joy, with nothing more than an endless eternity to look forward to... Well then, what kind of being could he become?

And there I was again, feeling sorry for Victor Creed.

"Ugh," I decided it was time to turn the page, as fascinated as I was by the photograph and its two subjects.

Clearly, I need to have _my _head checked, if I thought there was more to a serial killer and rapists besides irreparable mental illness.

So, I flipped the fragile page and firmly put my mind toward something other than examining the photograph and its worlds of possibilities. And when I saw the small, precise, and wonderfully elegant penmanship, I didn't even try to stifle a sigh of delight. This record would be a pleasure to read; its writer had been as meticulous in her handwriting as a medieval monk and the care that she'd had for the history she left behind was clear.

I kicked off my shoes, reached for the bag beside the bed where I kept my own work journal and sharpened pencils, and settled against the stack of fluffed-up pillows. There was no time like the present to start translating and I was eager to see how her unheard story would unfold.

* * *

**August 15th, 1862**

_Tommy died today. I miss him. He was right beside me when it happened. One minute he was there. The next minute, he was on the ground._

_I couldn't stop, though I tried. Joshua Bennett pushed me forward – I couldn't stop. Not with the battalion flag in my hands. I had to keep going. All I wanted was to be with my brother._

_I found him later and held him. The doctors couldn't do anything for him. It was a fatal wound to the gut. So, I sang to him and told him stories. He died in my arms._

_I never meant to keep a journal. That was Tommy's thing. He tried to give me his, but I couldn't take it. I buried it with him. He was always a writer – it seemed like the sort of thing he'd want with him beyond the pale. Like an ancient soldier buried with his sword. Just seemed right to bury Tommy with his journal._

_He had an extra, though. A clean one. This one. I guess I'll use it now. And record what happens. For Tommy._

_I miss him._

_And Da. And Gerald. And Patrick._

_I can't believe this war has taken all of them. Uncle Michael and I are the only McDonoughs left._

_This is the journal of Josephina McDonough. So begins my story._

* * *

I could feel my eyes widening as I read – I hadn't expected to learn the identity of the writer so quickly.

_What a gold mine!_ I thought, as I scratched down the translation as quickly as I could.

The words came to me, as easily as if I had penned them myself. I had always had a knack for translating ancient languages – Gaelige in particular. But...this translation was different.

It seemed familiar, somehow. And, as I read, I saw the words less and less, and more of the drama that unfolded on the pages before me, like a movie on the silver screen...

* * *

**August 22nd, 1862**

_I am a number of any interesting things at any given time, but at that moment, I was wet, scared, lonely, and lost. Wet, because the summer thunderstorm that had broken the sky in half around sunset, still hadn't let up – and it was bound to be sunrise in just a few hours. Scared, because I had just been transferred from the 116th Pennsylvania Infantry, in an effort to buffer me from the slaughter that had claimed my brothers and father. Lonely, because only days before, I had held my twin brother in my arms and watched his life bleed out between my fingers. Lost, because I had no fecking clue where I had left my tent._

_I had just stepped out for a minute – just long enough to make my way to a copse on the far edge of the field, where I was able to relieve myself in private. Going hadn't been so hard, but coming back was made almost impossible by the torrential downpour and flashes of lightening that left spots dancing in front of my eyes for minutes afterward._

_I'd been camped somewhere in the middle of the mess, toward the back edges – or, I thought so, anyway. It was hard to tell now, between the rain that plastered my bangs down into my face and the mud that sucked at my every step._

_I tasted salt in the rainwater that poured down my cheeks – I was crying, but there wasn't anyone to see. And even if there had been, they wouldn't have really been able to tell the tears from the rain._

_This wouldn't have happened in the 116th. Everyone looked out for Father McDonough's brother and four nephews. As, one by one, my father and brothers fell, more and more men of Company B started keeping an eye out on their chaplain's youngest "nephew". And even if they would have laughed at me later, someone would have noticed me wandering around in the dark and offered me shelter from the storm._

_And Tommy may have teased me about being scared of a "stupid, ole' thunderstorm", but at least my twin would have been there to do it. And if Da was alive..._

Oh, Da,_ I wiped a rough woolen sleeve across my eyes – just as much to wipe away the tears as to clear my eyes of the rain._

_If Da were still alive, he would have told me an old Irish story about gods and thunderstorms. Something about Leir and the Tuatha Da Danaan. Something to make me laugh and forget about my fear._

_A spark of light tore the dark sky asunder, freezing me – wide-eyed – in my tracks. A deafening boom of thunder gave me a sudden flashback of a cannon that had once gone off beside me and I reacted on pure instinct._

_With a scream lost in the cacophony of the thunder, I nose-dived for the nearest tent. Several things happened at once._

_I landed on a man's back – a big man's back. I rolled off of him the second he started to move and I fell to the floor, covering the back of my neck with my hands. As I curled up into a ball on the muddy tent floor, I shouted as loudly as I could -_

"_I'm a friend! I'm a friend!"_

_Another body stirred next to her and I realized, panic rising, that I had fallen in between the forms of two men, the rough size of sleeping bears. As two forms reared up against the flashing lightening, I squeaked and hid my face nose-first into a dirty sock._

_The air moved above my head, punctuated seconds afterward by a litany of curses._

"_Dammit, Jimmy! That's my fuckin' arm!"_

"_Fuck you, Victor! Get yer claws outta' my damn shoulder!"_

"_Yeah, well...fuck!" there was a slight pause, followed by a snarl. "I think I broke a nail on your damn shoulder bone."_

_There was another brief pause, before the man to my left made a soft snorting sound like suppressed laughter. The man to my right growled and muttered something under his breath, but it was lost in the echoing thunder._

_I shook at their feet, in a mixture of cold and fear. I didn't dare move._

"_What the hell we got here, anyway?" the man of the broken nail growled and prodded my back none too gently with the edge of his boot._

"_A wannabe thief, probably," the other man snorted._

_He reached down and grabbed me by one of my slender arms. I was hauled to my feet – and then some. Within seconds, my tippy-toes were scrabbling for purchase on the dirt floor beneath them and my arm started to burn from the pain of holding my body's entire weight up off the ground._

"_Get some light in here, will ya', Vic?"_

_In the blinding darkness, I couldn't see the man who was holding me up, but I could smell his breath, just inches from my face. I could sense his sheer size – and I fought the urge to laugh hysterically at the stupidity of my situation._

_If the man could pick me up so easily, without even so much as a grunt of effort, then I knew I was in deep shite. He seemed ill-tempered, as well, and clearly thought I was a thief._

I'm fecked,_ I thought, with a sinking sort of feeling settling deep into my stomach._

_I'd seen what happened to thieves. It wasn't pretty. And, somewhere in the process of beating me into a bloody pulp, they were bound to find out that I was a woman. And when faced with the truth of that discovery, or a beating..._

_Well, I've always been pragmatic sort of soul._

_I'd take the beating any day._

_I'd seen what happened to women who put up a fight, too._

_Hell, by now, I'd seen everything. Even though Da and my brothers had tried to shelter me. There were just some things that couldn't be hid in the slums, or in the factories, or in the camps. And, they couldn't shelter me against all of the nine centuries of hatred and the evil that my soul had witnessed. Men would be men – and at the end of the day, most of them were no better than animals._

_The sound of a striking match turned my head and I blinked owlishly against the sudden flare of light. I saw the dark outline of a half-naked man, as he opened the lantern hanging just inches above my head._

Oh, sure,_ I thought sarcastically as the man held the flame against the candle wick above me. _Just light a fire right near my head. Feckin' brilliant, you idiots. Fry my hair off, while you're at it.

_My eyes slowly adjusted to the flickering light; the man next to me closed the lantern and blew out the match. Smoke curled up into my nose and I fought the urge to cough. Not for fear of showing any sort of weakness, but because coughing would have just put more pressure on my arm._

_Which was still dangling above my head, grasped in a vice-like grip._

_I blinked my eyes one last time and tried to decide who was the more immediate threat. The fully-clothed man in front of me, dangling me by my arm like a wet rag doll? Or the half-to-mostly-naked man next to me, who seemed content to stand on the sidelines and hover like a preacher's threat of damnation?_

_I decided that the man in front of me was more important – for the moment. I wasn't going to count out Damnation just yet._

"_What's your name?" the voice above me demanded gruffly._

_I blinked and tried to make out his face in the flickering gloom. All I could see were a pair of light brown eyes and a half-awake scowl._

"_J-Joseph...Joseph M-McDonough," I stuttered._

_I couldn't help myself. I was caught between Trouble and Damnation. And as much as I tried to fake a sense of bravery, all I could think of was how I'd never be able to beat the two men off, if they decided to do me harm._

"_What's your unit, boy?" the man demanded again; his face remained in shadow and his voice roughened threateningly._

"_I-I've j-just b-been t-transferred," I squeaked; the rain had soaked my clothes to my skin and I was shivering in the man's grip._

_That didn't help my stutter any._

"_I-I'm f-from t-the 116th," I added, anticipating my captor's next question. "C-Company B-B."_

"_Why were you transferred?" Damnation spoke up._

_His voice was deep, like thunder, and rough, like splintered wood. The sound of it made my teeth chatter all the harder. His voice was low, but in all of the ages that my soul could remember, I couldn't recall having heard a more sinister sound._

"_You get transferred for bein' a nuisance an' disturbin' a man's precious sleep?" Damnation's voice crawled over my skin like a physical touch and he stepped closer to me._

_Closer into the weak, flickering light. My eyes widened._

_He was tall – a good six feet at least, if not more. And he was broad. Broad of shoulders. Broad of chest. Broad of face. My eyes lingered a moment on the thick cords of muscle in his naked arms._

I'm so fecked.

_I remembered men like him. The Vikings once favored them. Called them Berserkers._

Blessed Mother Mary...save me from this hound of hell!

_As if in answer to my pea, I finally found my voice._

"_N-no," I gasped and tried not to focus on my heart, which was hammering in my throat. "I-I w-was t-transferred c-cause...c-cause..." I forced the tears back as best I could. "C-cause m-my f-family's d-dead."_

"_That doesn't make any sense," Damnation's gray eyes narrowed suspiciously. "They didn't transfer you away from the fightin'."_

_There. He had seen through my deception. It was a weak one, to be sure, but it was the best one I had._

"_They don't transfer the last living son closer to the fighting. They send him back home," Trouble seemed to follow Damnation's train of thought and called my ruse._

_I had enough decency, at least, to hang my head._

"_Why aren't you home with your mother?" Damnation spat on the ground._

"_Watch it, Victor," Trouble shifted to the side and I caught a glimpse of his face in the candlelight. "Don't spit on my boots."_

_His face wasn't as harsh as his companion's. It was more open – a bit more humane. But, it was still a hard face, with hard lines and a no-nonsense set to his mouth. He didn't conjure up thoughts of a Viking Berserker, but he had the unmistakable air of a fighter._

_I turned my head again toward the man who now had a name – Victor._

"_I don't have a mam. And I don't have a home."_

_There was a long pause; I counted the seconds in raindrops. The two men exchanged a glance of some significance, but I couldn't catch what it meant. Finally, Trouble broke the silence._

"_That still doesn't answer why you're in our tent in the middle of the goddamn night."_

"_I...I..." I almost couldn't make myself say it, but the dangerous gleam in Victor's eyes forced the words from my mouth in a jumbled rush. "I got up to piss an' I lost my way back to my tent."_

_Victor snorted contemptuously; I could see he wasn't buying it._

"_You lost your way back to your tent?"_

_I blushed clear to the very roots of my short hair._

"_I'm afraid of thunderstorms...I couldn't see..."_

_Neither of them tried to hide their amusement. Victor laughed openly in my face and I could feel his companion's quieter chuckle vibrate through my arm._

"_And how did you end up in our tent?" Trouble demanded again, as Victor sniggered rudely._

"_I got spooked by a flash of lightenin'," I decided it was best if I addressed the tips of my toes. "I just ducked for the first bit of shelter I could find."_

_There was another long pause, punctuated by spurts of laughter._

"_Lightening scared you into our tent?"_

"_Yes."_

_Pause._

"_You're not here to steal anything?"_

"_No."_

_Trouble suddenly let go of my arm and I fell sharply onto my arse. I scrambled to my feet as quickly as possible, but Trouble threw me off balance as he moved past me, toward his bedroll on the side. I fell into Victor for the second time that night; he clamped a shoulder harshly onto my shoulder and steadied me._

_I quickly realized that the hand on my shoulder wasn't a hand of kindness. It was a warning. Out of reflex, I glanced down at his hand and couldn't help gasping at the claws that threatened to pierce my skin._

"_You'll live longer, kid, if you mind your own business," Victor's warm breath tickled my cheek and I realized that he had bent down to whisper in my ear. "You'll soon find out that Jimmy and I like our privacy. We don't appreciate unwanted visitors."_

"_Put those away, Vic," Trouble – so named "Jimmy" - laid back on his bedroll with a stifled groan._

_Victor turned his head to stare down his brother, but the claws against my shoulder retracted as asked._

"_There's no need to scare the kid. I think he's frightened enough as it is. He didn't come in here to steal anything – just let him go."_

"_Yeah, well...I'm just makin' sure we've made our point," Victor turned back to me and I couldn't help feeling stripped bare beneath that gray gaze. "Don't want any repeat performances."_

"_Just let him go," Jimmy repeated, almost wearily._

_Victor lifted his hand, just to place it in the middle of my back and give me a hard push toward the front of the tent. Without another word, he turned his bare back to me and I stumbled as quickly as I could back into the rain and the thunder._

_Even lightening was preferable to a hostile mutant. I had lived enough lives to learn that._

_As I started making my way miserably through the mud and the muck, I caught the growl of Victor's voice one last time._

"_I'll give the kid seven days, before the wolves get 'em. He'll never last a week in this camp."_

* * *

I finally stopped when my eyes got too heavy and itchy at the corners to continue. I couldn't believe what an extraordinary find had landed into my hands. The Gaelige was perfect, written by a true native speaker and the style in which Josephina had recorded her thoughts in was that of a grand Irish tale. She didn't just record her thoughts, feelings, and significant events – she _narrated_ them. It was a delight to read and it alleviated some of the tediousness of translating.

I also couldn't believe that she had already narrated a meeting with Victor Cred – and, apparently, his brother. If the Masters knew that Creed had a brother, they had never made mention of it; I couldn't recall any next-of-kin listed in the file that the Organization kept on Creed. As far as we were concerned, he had shown up one day, fully grown and murderous. There had never been any attempts (or desire) to humanize him.

I had to laugh, though, at Josephina's nickname for Creed - "Damnation". I didn't chuckle for long, though; how had he gone from "Damnation", to a smiling newlywed in a faded photograph, to Interpol's Most Wanted? I flipped back to the front cover of the diary and gently smoothed a finger over the record of his joyous face; our meeting had been prearranged by my Masters and his arrival was imminent. How was I supposed to reconcile what I was sure to meet, with this record of what had once been?

I fell asleep to my musings, still fully dressed and lying on top of the covers. My dreams were filled with fanged smiles and laughing Irish eyes.


End file.
